DREAMS IN LITTLE BLACK STRETCHY PANTS, BOILING BLOOD, AND LIFE IN RESIDENCY
You know, I never thought I'd retire into athleisure, of all things. It feels more like a residency, honestly, not so much a break. Workouts at SoulCycle come with health benefits now—nice enough, yeah? It’s different from what I’ve done before, after the whirlwind of music, editorial modeling, and hot yoga sessions in rooms thick with incense and whispered om’s. But it’s quieter, maybe more stable. Just when I thought I was finding my rhythm, though, I got this call.
Captured in the vibrant heartbeat of the fashion district, a world where creativity pulses and edges blur, we celebrate raw authenticity. Now playing "ANIMAL" by EMELINE—a track that roars with unfiltered power. Step into the rhythm, feel the grit, and make it edgy with us. We lingo, we create, we live.
It was Haiden. Aspiring rock musician Haiden. We used to cross paths in new age circles back when everything was about "energy alignment" and "living your truth." He used to strum his guitar and sing these hauntingly beautiful solo songs that lingered in the air like echoes of another lifetime. We’ve been talking on and off for a while now—me crying for him, or maybe just "pretending" to cry for him. Who knows anymore? But something stirred when I started working here. Felt like boiling blood in my veins, unfinished business rising to the surface.
I was starting a magazine––it was my passion project, you know? I needed someone with real clout, real credibility to give it its legs. Haiden had this show back when he was younger on one of those major teen networks. Glittery, polished, beautifully tragic. I couldn’t just ask him outright to help. Not at first. We agreed to get coffee. Standard protocol. I brought my script for a web series I was starring in as an icebreaker. Haiden sat across from me, effortlessly cool in his worn leather jacket, sip-sipping his latte, waiting. I explained, voice trembling as I unraveled every energetic breakthrough and spiritual awakening I’d collaged together in my head. "Do you want me to be honest about this?" he said, eyes piercing.
"Sure," I whispered, not sure if I wanted him to see me shatter under his critique. And yeah, it was tough. Criticism that splintered me into a million jagged pieces, left me crying right there in the middle of that café. But still, I managed to compose myself, look him right in the eyes, and say, "Since I took your feedback, which made me cry, you owe me. You need to cover my magazine. I need someone who had their own show."
He said sure. Just like that. But you know what? It wasn’t right after that. Things weren’t okay. I could tell he’d gone back to that same new age group we shared before. And honestly, I’ll never forgive him for what he did there. Not to me, not to us. But then again... maybe I was in the wrong? Who knows. I only know one thing—it’s complicated carrying the weight of your past when you're trying to fit into a future you didn’t quite plan for.
-Mitch, Ryder, GG Collective
Epilogue: Life has a way of handing us puzzle pieces that don’t seem to fit together, even when we think we’ve got the whole picture set. Us? We’ve all been there—countless hours replaying those conversations over and over, trying to figure out where things twisted, or if they even twisted at all. It’s like you’re hearing this one melody, right? But under it, there’s this dissonant hum you can’t shake. That’s all that mixed feedback, the chatter, the whispers of half-truths that hang in the air long after the folks who said them are gone. When you look back, you’re caught between hurt and understanding, walking a tightrope. Not gonna lie—balancing the trust you gave someone with the reality of how they shattered it? That’s heavy. Trust isn’t just what you give; it’s unpredictable, fragile, and barely holds steady on the edge of your expectations. And when it breaks, those sharp little pieces leave cuts you didn’t ask for. The big question is, do you pick them up and try to piece them together? Or just leave them there?
Thing is, those moments of gut-wrenching disappointment often sneak in some big lessons. Hardest truth? Someone else’s actions or opinions? They’re rarely about you. Sounds simple, but it sure doesn’t make it sting any less. I mean, we’ve all been there, right? Sitting in the middle of someone else’s chaos, feeling the aftershocks they don’t even realize they left. It’s messed up, but sometimes, people are so wrapped up in their own storm, they don’t see the ripples they’re sending your way. Doesn’t excuse it, of course. But it’s real. And the mixed feedback? Whew. If you’re not careful, it starts to mess your head up, makes you turn every word, every step, every action over in your mind, searching for where you dropped the ball. Was I too much? Or maybe not enough? It’s exhausting, that back-and-forth.
But listen, and this part matters—you don’t have to be defined by those voices. Sure, they challenge you, twist you up a bit. But they also push you closer to who you really are, remind you to stand firm in your truth when the noise settles. Not every relationship, every ounce of trust, is built to last forever. Some folks? They show up for a season, to teach you, break you, or show you something you gotta see. When their part wraps up, they leave you with something valuable—a clearer path. And look, forgiving someone doesn’t mean they’ve earned a ticket back into your life. Forgiveness isn’t about them. It’s about you, releasing the weight, choosing peace instead of the bitterness that eats at you. It’s about growth, and knowing the past may shape you, but it doesn’t get to own your future.
Sorting through trust, hurt, regret, even love—it’s messy, yeah. But every layer you peel back shows you more about what you can handle, what you hope for, and what you’re building next. Look, life’s not a neat and shiny story tied up with a bow, and maybe that’s the point. The mess, the flaws, the trust shaken and rebuilt—that’s what makes it real. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what makes it beautiful. One step at a time, we’re all learning to trust ourselves more. After all, that’s the firm ground we’ve been chasing all along.
WHEN THE CAMERA STOPS, THE STORY BEGINS + YESTERDAY’S DREAM, TODAY’S RECKONING
I remember the day vividly—the day we started planning the shoot. The air was thick with excitement, humming with the kind of energy that precedes something transformative. Yet, beneath the buzz of creativity, there was a barely audible whisper of unease in the back of my mind. I told myself it was just nerves, the kind that creep in when you’re embarking on something entirely new. After all, firsts have a way of unsettling you, don’t they? But the details were aligning almost too perfectly, like pieces of a puzzle snapping into place in a way that felt both thrilling and unnerving. The wardrobe? Stunningly on point. The set? Crafted almost exactly how I’d imagined it in the quiet corners of my mind. And the angles—oh, the angles—I had sketched and dreamed and obsessed over how to frame what I wanted to say. It was all happening, and yet that whisper of doubt refused to fade.
Captured by Mitchell Royel somewhere in the heart of Los Angeles, the energy was electric, raw, and unapologetically real. With the sultry beats of "BAD GIRL" by DAYA pulsing in the background, the atmosphere radiated rebellion and allure. It was a moment where the city’s grit met undeniable confidence, a space where boldness thrived, and authenticity was celebrated.
My initial plan hinged on my friend, the working actor. He was the kind of person you couldn’t ignore even if you tried—the room would tilt toward him the second he stepped in, commanding attention effortlessly. There was a fire to him, unpredictable and captivating, but as I’ve learned, fire doesn’t just warm; it can also scorch. He came with his own baggage, rough edges that I was willing to smooth over because part of me thought I needed his magic to bring my vision to life. But something about it—about him—felt precarious, like holding something precious right on the edge of breaking. He had this way of making you feel alive and unraveled all at once, saying things like, “Take it down,” whenever emotions ran high. I wouldn’t say I was afraid of him, but I was afraid of what he might bring out in me. And with that fear came a deep yearning for something simpler—cleaner. I didn’t want drama. I wanted art, creation, and peace in the process.
That’s when I made the call to the runway model. He was a different kind of presence, magnetic in a quiet, understated way. Sharp lines, haunting eyes, and a subtle charisma that didn’t beg for attention—it simply existed. I pictured him in the controlled chaos of the scenes, and he fit. Effortlessly. When we started rehearsing, I knew I’d made the right choice. He brought with him a stillness, a kind of grounded energy that balanced my restlessness. There was this flow when we worked together, so natural it caught me off guard. The lines came alive, the silences between takes were comfortable, and the laughter we shared felt unforced—organic. I didn’t realize then how much I’d been craving that kind of ease, that kind of alignment. It wasn’t just about the video anymore. It became a shared act of creation, something honest and human. And when the camera turned to him, it was magic. The lens adored him, but more than that, his presence took over the frame, making everything feel alive in a way I almost couldn’t explain.
By the time we wrapped, there was a kind of glow around all of it—a buzz that lingered, like we’d bottled lightning. After the last shot, we stayed on set longer than we needed to, reluctant to leave what we’d just created. We snapped selfies, all messy hair and flushed cheeks, still damp from the hot glare of the studio lights. We laughed so hard our sides hurt, marveling at how surreal the day had been, how everything had aligned. When I went home that night, I replayed the moments over and over in my mind, almost obsessively, like I was trying to hold onto them before time rubbed them smooth. There was this clarity I hadn’t felt in years, a sense that maybe—just maybe—I was on the right path, walking toward something that mattered. For weeks, those memories filled me with a quiet kind of joy, a sense of purpose I’d never been able to define.
And then, the call came. I can still hear the producer’s voice, raw and uneven, cracking as he told me about the accident. It didn’t register at first. My brain skidded to a halt, struggling to piece together the chaos of his words. An accident? My chest caved in as I tried to assemble meaning from nothing but fragments. What was this? Was it just a terrible coincidence? Was there some cosmic thread tying it all together, pulling strings in ways I couldn’t see? My mind spiraled, ricocheting between searching for answers and spiraling deeper into questions. The unease I’d pushed aside during the shoot—suppressed and dismissed—came rushing back, a relentless tide of dread. But this time, it wasn’t a nagging thought I could ignore; it was heavier, darker, more consuming than anything I’d known. It wasn’t just guilt or sadness or fear. It was a storm of emotions I couldn’t name, a shadow that settled deep inside me. It changed the way I saw everything—the memories, the project, myself. Even now, I can’t quite articulate what it was. Maybe I’ll never be able to. Some truths live in the spaces between words, in the silence that lingers after everything has unraveled.
Epilogue: Tough Skin and Sacred Dreams
I’ve learned that life’s deepest wounds often carve the channels through which our greatest wisdom flows. The storm described wasn’t just an emotional downpour—it was a spiritual reckoning, a call to surrender what I couldn’t control. Sometimes, to build tough skin isn’t about armoring up; it's about letting go. It’s not about fighting harder but releasing the chains that keep us bound to fear, guilt, or doubt. It’s about leaning into faith and letting the Spirit do what only the Spirit can do—heal, restore, and uplift.
Supernatural warfare is real. And when we don’t guard our dreams, when we leave them vulnerable to the lies of the enemy and the weight of this world, they start to wither. But here’s the truth: God never abandons the seeds He plants in our hearts. Scripture reminds us in Ephesians 6:11 to “Put on the full armor of God, so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes.” When we wear that armor, the wounds don’t define us, and the shadows don’t scare us—they strengthen us.
We don’t have to go through the battle alone. When we plug into the Spirit—when we trust in the unshakable foundation of faith—the supernatural attack loses its power over us. God’s grace will always be greater than our darkest moments, but we need to stay vigilant, rooted in His promises.
10 Tips to Build Tough Skin Without Losing Your Soul
Suit Up Spiritually – Every day, immerse yourself in Ephesians 6 and put on God’s armor. The battle is not ours alone, but the victory through Him is assured.
Anchor in Truth – Stay grounded in Jeremiah 29:11, which reminds us that God’s plans are to prosper us, not to harm us.
Breathe Your Faith – Meditation isn’t just quiet time; it’s connection with God. Philippians 4:6-7 says peace comes when we bring everything to Him in prayer.
Surround Yourself with Us – Community matters. Proverbs 27:17 tells us, “Iron sharpens iron.” Build a tribe that fuels your spirit.
Keep the Dream Covered – Don’t leave your dreams unprotected. Pray over them daily and trust God to grow them as He wills.
Forgiveness Sets You Free – Matthew 6:14 reminds us to forgive as we’ve been forgiven. We don’t need to carry the weight of resentment.
Silence the Inner Critic – 2 Corinthians 10:5 says to take every thought captive. Declare truth over the lies.
Lean into Gratitude – Psalm 118:24 urges us to rejoice in the day the Lord has made. Gratitude dismantles negativity’s power.
Expect Resistance, Trust the Outcome – Psalm 37:7 is your lifeline in waiting and trusting God’s perfect timing.
Celebrate the Slow Progress – Zechariah 4:10 reminds us not to despise humble beginnings. The small steps forward are where God’s work begins.
We are warriors, dreamers, and overcomers. The storms may come, but they don’t have the last word over our lives. Stand tall with your tough skin and tender heart, anchored in faith and armed with love. Keep dreaming big, because with Him, all things are possible.
write 5 all caps titles for the following: I remember the day vividly—the day we started planning the shoot. The air was thick with excitement, humming with the kind of energy that precedes something transformative. Yet, beneath the buzz of creativity, there was a barely audible whisper of unease in the back of my mind. I told myself it was just nerves, the kind that creep in when you’re embarking on something entirely new. After all, firsts have a way of unsettling you, don’t they? But the details were aligning almost too perfectly, like pieces of a puzzle snapping into place in a way that felt both thrilling and unnerving. The wardrobe? Stunningly on point. The set? Crafted almost exactly how I’d imagined it in the quiet corners of my mind. And the angles—oh, the angles—I had sketched and dreamed and obsessed over how to frame what I wanted to say. It was all happening, and yet that whisper of doubt refused to fade.
My initial plan hinged on my friend, the working actor. He was the kind of person you couldn’t ignore even if you tried—the room would tilt toward him the second he stepped in, commanding attention effortlessly. There was a fire to him, unpredictable and captivating, but as I’ve learned, fire doesn’t just warm; it can also scorch. He came with his own baggage, rough edges that I was willing to smooth over because part of me thought I needed his magic to bring my vision to life. But something about it—about him—felt precarious, like holding something precious right on the edge of breaking. He had this way of making you feel alive and unraveled all at once, saying things like, “Take it down,” whenever emotions ran high. I wouldn’t say I was afraid of him, but I was afraid of what he might bring out in me. And with that fear came a deep yearning for something simpler—cleaner. I didn’t want drama. I wanted art, creation, and peace in the process.
That’s when I made the call to the runway model. He was a different kind of presence, magnetic in a quiet, understated way. Sharp lines, haunting eyes, and a subtle charisma that didn’t beg for attention—it simply existed. I pictured him in the controlled chaos of the scenes, and he fit. Effortlessly. When we started rehearsing, I knew I’d made the right choice. He brought with him a stillness, a kind of grounded energy that balanced my restlessness. There was this flow when we worked together, so natural it caught me off guard. The lines came alive, the silences between takes were comfortable, and the laughter we shared felt unforced—organic. I didn’t realize then how much I’d been craving that kind of ease, that kind of alignment. It wasn’t just about the video anymore. It became a shared act of creation, something honest and human. And when the camera turned to him, it was magic. The lens adored him, but more than that, his presence took over the frame, making everything feel alive in a way I almost couldn’t explain.
By the time we wrapped, there was a kind of glow around all of it—a buzz that lingered, like we’d bottled lightning. After the last shot, we stayed on set longer than we needed to, reluctant to leave what we’d just created. We snapped selfies, all messy hair and flushed cheeks, still damp from the hot glare of the studio lights. We laughed so hard our sides hurt, marveling at how surreal the day had been, how everything had aligned. When I went home that night, I replayed the moments over and over in my mind, almost obsessively, like I was trying to hold onto them before time rubbed them smooth. There was this clarity I hadn’t felt in years, a sense that maybe—just maybe—I was on the right path, walking toward something that mattered. For weeks, those memories filled me with a quiet kind of joy, a sense of purpose I’d never been able to define.
And then, the call came. I can still hear the producer’s voice, raw and uneven, cracking as he told me about the accident. It didn’t register at first. My brain skidded to a halt, struggling to piece together the chaos of his words. An accident? My chest caved in as I tried to assemble meaning from nothing but fragments. What was this? Was it just a terrible coincidence? Was there some cosmic thread tying it all together, pulling strings in ways I couldn’t see? My mind spiraled, ricocheting between searching for answers and spiraling deeper into questions. The unease I’d pushed aside during the shoot—suppressed and dismissed—came rushing back, a relentless tide of dread. But this time, it wasn’t a nagging thought I could ignore; it was heavier, darker, more consuming than anything I’d known. It wasn’t just guilt or sadness or fear. It was a storm of emotions I couldn’t name, a shadow that settled deep inside me. It changed the way I saw everything—the memories, the project, myself. Even now, I can’t quite articulate what it was. Maybe I’ll never be able to. Some truths live in the spaces between words, in the silence that lingers after everything has unraveled.
-Mitch, Ryder, GG Collective
Epilogue: Tough Skin +
Sacred Dreams
I’ve learned that life’s deepest wounds often carve the channels through which our greatest wisdom flows. The storm described wasn’t just an emotional downpour—it was a spiritual reckoning, a call to surrender what I couldn’t control. Sometimes, to build tough skin isn’t about armoring up; it's about letting go. It’s not about fighting harder but releasing the chains that keep us bound to fear, guilt, or doubt. It’s about leaning into faith and letting the Spirit do what only the Spirit can do—heal, restore, and uplift.
Supernatural warfare is real. And when we don’t guard our dreams, when we leave them vulnerable to the lies of the enemy and the weight of this world, they start to wither. But here’s the truth: God never abandons the seeds He plants in our hearts. Scripture reminds us in Ephesians 6:11 to “Put on the full armor of God, so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes.” When we wear that armor, the wounds don’t define us, and the shadows don’t scare us—they strengthen us.
We don’t have to go through the battle alone. When we plug into the Spirit—when we trust in the unshakable foundation of faith—the supernatural attack loses its power over us. God’s grace will always be greater than our darkest moments, but we need to stay vigilant, rooted in His promises.
Suit Up Spiritually – Every day, immerse yourself in Ephesians 6 and put on God’s armor. The battle is not ours alone, but the victory through Him is assured.
Anchor in Truth – Stay grounded in Jeremiah 29:11, which reminds us that God’s plans are to prosper us, not to harm us.
Breathe Your Faith – Meditation isn’t just quiet time; it’s connection with God. Philippians 4:6-7 says peace comes when we bring everything to Him in prayer.
Surround Yourself with Us – Community matters. Proverbs 27:17 tells us, “Iron sharpens iron.” Build a tribe that fuels your spirit.
Keep the Dream Covered – Don’t leave your dreams unprotected. Pray over them daily and trust God to grow them as He wills.
Forgiveness Sets You Free – Matthew 6:14 reminds us to forgive as we’ve been forgiven. We don’t need to carry the weight of resentment.
Silence the Inner Critic – 2 Corinthians 10:5 says to take every thought captive. Declare truth over the lies.
Lean into Gratitude – Psalm 118:24 urges us to rejoice in the day the Lord has made. Gratitude dismantles negativity’s power.
Expect Resistance, Trust the Outcome – Psalm 37:7 is your lifeline in waiting and trusting God’s perfect timing.
Celebrate the Slow Progress – Zechariah 4:10 reminds us not to despise humble beginnings. The small steps forward are where God’s work begins.
NICCOLO MACHIAVELLI + THE UNIVERSE
Captured in the heart of the fashion district by Mitchell Royel, where the volume is turned up to "SOS" by Alyssa. Burn it to the ground, rebuild with purpose, and rise anew.
So here's the thing nobody tells you about being that girl — the one everyone thinks has it figured out. The one whose feed looks perfect, whose parties get talked about for weeks, whose name floats around hallways like she invented cool. Everybody assumed I'd cruise straight into some prestigious school, keep the crown, keep the aesthetic. And honestly? For a while, I let them think it. Because that's what you do when the whole town's watching. You perform.
The last day of high school felt like the finale of a show I was tired of starring in. Everyone was crying, hugging, signing yearbooks like their whole identity depended on it. Meanwhile I stood there in my little main-character moment feeling absolutely nothing. No fireworks. No relief. Just this low hum in my chest, like a phone buzzing in another room. Everyone kept saying, "This is the best chapter of your life!" and I kept thinking, is it though? Because it feels like I'm reading someone else's script.
College was supposed to be the plot twist that fixed everything. Spoiler: it didn't. I lasted a year. One long, beige, soul-sucking year of pretending to care about lecture halls and networking events and people who peaked at pre-orientation. I felt caged. Boxed in by expectations that were never even mine to begin with. I'd sit in these giant rooms full of ambitious strangers and feel more alone than I'd ever felt in my life. So I did the thing you're not supposed to do. The thing that makes moms clutch their chests and aunts start whispering.
I dropped out.
Explaining that to my family was its own genre of chaos. The disappointed stares. The "we just don't understand" speeches. The way my dad wouldn't look at me for like a week. But real talk? It was the first decision I ever made that was actually mine. Not for the aesthetic. Not for the crowd. For me. And that felt dangerous in the best way — like finally deleting an app that was ruining your mental health.
I needed somewhere to put all that restless energy, so I found a hot yoga studio a few blocks from home and basically moved in. Three sessions a day. Yeah, you read that right — three. I was sweating out an entire era of my life on a rubber mat while some instructor whispered about breath and intention. People thought I was being extra. Maybe I was. But there's something about being folded in half in a 105-degree room, dripping and shaking, that strips away all the fake. No filter survives that heat. For the first time, I could actually hear myself think. It was less "wellness girlie" and more "quiet breakdown with better lighting," and honestly, I needed it.
Then the universe did its little thing.
A friend — the kind who's always chasing the next weird experience — casually dropped, "You have to come to this new age event with me." My first instinct was hard no. But something about that low hum in my chest said go. So I went. Reluctantly. Eye-roll fully loaded.
The place was in DTLA, tucked between crumbling buildings and parking lots that gave very "you might get your car stolen." Sketchy from the outside. But then I walked in and — okay, wow. It was like stepping through a portal. Vintage rugs layered over each other, lighting so low and warm it made everyone look like a Renaissance painting, and this thick, buzzing air of people who were all searching for something. Crystals everywhere. Fairy lights strung across the walls. A rainbow LED strip glowing along the ceiling like the room itself was breathing color. It smelled like sage and possibility.
And then there was him. The leader.
Tall. Black. Long dreads. This calm that filled the entire room before he even opened his mouth. He wore this tan tee that said "I AM / WE ARE" and somehow it didn't feel corny — it felt like a dare. When he spoke about energy, alignment, radical honesty, the whole room leaned in like plants tilting toward the sun. I've been around charisma my whole life. I am charisma, let's be honest. But this was different. This was hypnotic. He didn't perform for the room the way I always did. The room performed for him.
And me being me — because I physically cannot sit still in a moment — I heard myself blurt out, "Hey, if you need help with your social media, I know a thing or two." Bold? Absolutely. On-brand? Extremely. Half the room turned. I didn't even flinch.
But the person who actually clocked it wasn't the leader. It was the guy running marketing. Quiet the whole night. Barely said a word. The kind of still that makes you nervous because you know he's absorbing everything. During the break, he walked up to me — reserved, unbothered, this intentional look in his eyes like he'd already decided something about me. We swapped numbers. No flirting. No games. Just... intent. I remember thinking, okay, this one's not like the others.
Two weeks later, coffee.
I walked in expecting the usual spiel — chakras, manifesting, "the universe has a plan for you," blah blah crystal girlie starter pack. Instead, before I even sat down properly, he goes:
"What are your thoughts on Machiavellianism?"
Excuse me? I nearly choked on my oat milk. But I'm not one to fold, so I told him the truth — that I'd actually been reading about it, and that as a Christian, parts of it made my skin crawl. He just nodded, slow, like he already knew. Then he hit me with, "Do you know who wrote the Bible?"
And that was the beginning of the most unhinged, brilliant conversation I'd had in years. We bounced between theology and philosophy and this brutal breakdown of how fake everyone online really is. He started calling out the new age influencers — the exact ones I'd seen my friends worship. "You're not actually buying it, are you? That one's on coke. The sex guru? Same." Zero hesitation. No PR-safe softening. Just raw, surgical honesty. It should've been jarring. Instead it was the most refreshing thing I'd heard in forever — like someone finally opened a window in a room I didn't realize was suffocating me.
I walked out of that coffee shop changed. Buzzing. My head spinning in the best, most dangerous way. Something in me had cracked open, and I couldn't un-crack it. His whole unapologetic thing — the way he refused to pretend, refused to perform — it held up a mirror to the girl I'd been playing my entire life. The popular one. The perfect one. The performance.
That coffee marked the start of my three-year break from the church.
Three years of questioning everything I'd been handed. Three years of getting messy, getting honest, getting lost on purpose just to see what I'd find. It wasn't clean. It wasn't cute. It didn't fit in a caption. But it was mine — every raw, complicated, flame-lit second of it. And somewhere in all that burning, the girl everyone thought they knew finally started becoming someone I actually recognized.
Turns out rebirth doesn't come with good lighting. It comes with fire.
Epilogue: And here's the thing about the fire—it doesn't ask for permission. It doesn't wait until you're ready. It simply finds you, consumes you, strips you down until all that's left is what was real all along. And while the heat makes you want to run, to douse the flames, to beg for the comfort of what you used to know—you realize, eventually, that the burning isn't punishment. It's preparation.
We grow in the wild spaces, the unruly moments when nothing feels certain, and yet everything becomes clear. Growth isn’t about knowing the answers—it’s about letting yourself step into the questions without shame. It’s about realizing that the messy work of unbecoming gives shape to who you were made to be. Leaning into it doesn’t mean you’ve lost; it means you’re willing to find what truly matters.
When the edges of time press close and the noise of the world recedes, there’s a pull—gentle but unrelenting—back to the source. Back to the love that waited for you, patient and unwavering, through every stumble and spark. And in that return, you don’t bring a perfect version of yourself. You bring the fire-forged, truth-grasping you that was hidden beneath layers of doubt and expectation.
Christ sees the ashes, not as failure, but as proof. Proof of your willingness to grow, to trust the heat of transformation without making yourself wrong for needing it.
And when you finally find your way home, it’s not to be the same. It’s to be new.
Always new.
-Mitch, Ryder, GG Collective
BETWEEN TREADMILLS AND TYLER PERRY
There I was, mid-sprint on the treadmill at Equinox, catching the perfect rhythm with my playlist blasting. I'd been working out there for a while—consistent, focused, and ready to switch into monthly payments after my three-month extension from attending that charity gala. But today? Today was different. My phone buzzed, interrupting the flow. I glanced at the screen and saw her name. You know the one—our girl, the one we were all rooting for. She’d just booked a recurring role on this insanely popular teen drama, the kind of thing that makes you stop and think, "Finally. This is it. She's about to take it all the way."
Captured by Mitchell Royel amid the gritty allure of the Fashion District, where industrial edges meet unapologetic style, I found myself immersed in a world that thrives on raw creativity and bold contrasts. The air buzzed with the hum of ambition, a perfect backdrop to the sultry, pulsating rhythm of "MELT" by Miss Madeline—this track doesn't just play, it electrifies. Draped in statement pieces that whispered defiance and oozed confidence, I could feel the fusion of art and attitude resonate like never before. It's more than just a moment; it's a vibe, it's an energy, it's a revolution stitched into fabric and echoed through slick beats.
When I answered, she didn't even give me time to say "hello." Panic hit me straight through the speaker. Something had happened—on set, no less. To this day, I still don’t fully know the details surrounding the altercation, or situation, or whatever we’re calling it now, but her voice was trembling, and the unease was palpable. Apparently, her mom was there too, which added to the tension. She’d made it crystal clear that she was not vibing with the star of the show. I mean, love her to death, but she had this fire about her that couldn’t be tamed. Instead of letting it break her, she spent filming breaks holed up in her trailer watching interviews—Oprah, Tyler Perry, Eartha Kitt—taking in all that iconic Black brilliance.
There I was, mid-sprint on the treadmill at Equinox, catching the perfect rhythm with my playlist blasting. I'd been working out there for a while—consistent, focused, and ready to switch into monthly payments after my three-month extension from attending that charity gala. But today? Today was different. My phone buzzed, interrupting the flow. I glanced at the screen and saw her name. You know the one—our girl, the one we were all rooting for. She’d just booked a recurring role on this insanely popular teen drama, the kind of thing that makes you stop and think, "Finally. This is it. She's about to take it all the way."
When I answered, she didn't even give me time to say "hello." Panic hit me straight through the speaker. Something had happened—on set, no less. To this day, I still don’t fully know the details surrounding the altercation, or situation, or whatever we’re calling it now, but her voice was trembling, and the unease was palpable. Apparently, her mom was there too, which added to the tension. She’d made it crystal clear that she was not vibing with the star of the show. I mean, love her to death, but she had this fire about her that couldn’t be tamed. Instead of letting it break her, she spent filming breaks holed up in her trailer watching interviews—Oprah, Tyler Perry, Eartha Kitt—taking in all that iconic Black brilliance.
Months later, out of nowhere, we got another call from her—this time, a different tone. She was shooting an indie film. The plot? Fuzzy. She didn’t bother clarifying too much. What she did make clear was this one thing—this film was her statement, her clapback at the network for the way they treated her. Oh, and it had a pretty intense love scene, something that felt wildly out of character but also fiercely intentional. Retaliation through ownership of her narrative, maybe? We weren’t sure how to feel, but she asked us to come to the premiere. Reluctantly, we did, eager to support but unsure what we’d walk into.
The event itself? Surreal. We met one of the exec producers—a nice guy, seemed genuine enough. Still, we couldn’t help but contrast her behavior to the whole vibe of the stars on that teen drama set. Honestly, we may never fully wrap our heads around what went down, but we had fun that night—awkward or not—and we're still rooting for her. Always.
Cultural disconnect?
Personality thing?
I don’t know.
We’re white, she’s Black.
Maybe that’s part of it.
Maybe not.
But man, what a ride.
-Mitch, Ryder, GG Collective
Epilogue: We are here to support each other, even when the paths we walk diverge in belief or behavior. It’s not about changing them or needing them to see the world the way we do—it’s about loving them through the ebb and flow of their humanness, as we honor our own. When we disagree, we still hold space with reverence. It’s the quiet act of listening without agenda, of anchoring ourselves in compassion when differences arise.
We sustain our holiness by staying rooted in love, by remembering that our spirits are interconnected beyond these temporary viewpoints. No one needs to be wrong for us to stay in alignment with our truth. We can offer grace, temper judgment with curiosity, and bring warmth into every interaction. This is how we carry forward peace. Together. Always together.
We listen to understand, not to respond.
We choose love over control.
We seek understanding, even when it feels uncomfortable.
We soften our gaze when judgment tries to harden it.
We breathe deeply before we speak. Words matter.
We hold the space for others to grow, even as we are growing.
We accept imperfection as part of our wholeness.
We leave space for silence—it can be the loudest form of wisdom.
We discern with kindness, not criticism.
We allow relationships to evolve without forcing an outcome.
We meet anger with calm and curiosity.
We see the divine in everyone, even when it feels challenging.
We practice gratitude to anchor ourselves in abundance.
We create space for sacred pauses in conversation and connection.
We surrender the need to be right and open to being real.
We honor others’ perspectives as a testament to their experiences.
We release the expectation for someone to think or feel as we do.
We extend grace when differences arise.
We assume the best in others, trusting in their humanity.
We lead with compassion, not defensiveness.
We carry hope forward, even in moments of division.
We reflect before we react.
We love without condition, even when there is dissonance.
We reframe disagreements as opportunities to deepen connection.
We nurture our hearts with self-care, so we can give love abundantly.
We allow our truth to flow without imposing it on others.
We hold boundaries with kindness, never with fear.
We open our hands and hearts to possibilities during conflict.
We find small moments to celebrate shared humanity.
We strive to be mirrors of peace, reflecting divine love back to one another.
"Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins." – 1 Peter 4:8
HUMMING THE HYMN OF HOPE, WHAT BLACK CHURCH WORSHIP TAUGHT US ABOUT UNITY
Captured so vividly by the visionary Mitchell Royel in the beating heart of the Fashion District, this was one of those rare, electric moments where creativity and raw energy intertwined flawlessly, creating magic in real time. At this very moment, I’m riding a wave of inspiration, immersed in the pulsing rhythm of "Don’t Lie" by The Chainsmokers & Kim Petras—a track so intoxicating, it feels as though the beat itself is sketching the next masterpiece. And as the soulful echoes of the Black church remind us so powerfully, “Won’t He do it!”
ART OF PRAISE & BELONGING: SITTING AMONG FAITHFUL SOULS IN A BLACK CHURCH.
Growing up out in the suburbs, with our cookie-cutter houses, wide streets, and smiling faces that didn’t really look like ours, we never thought much about it. It was just life—the block parties, potlucks, endless small talk, and weekend plans that revolved around stuff like school sports and trips to the mall. It was safe, sure, but it also felt like we were co-starring in someone else’s story. None of us really talked about it, about how we adjusted ourselves to “blend in,” like shadows on pristine white walls. We weren’t miserable, but it wasn’t exactly us either. Then senior year flipped everything. That’s when I met him—a Black guy whose entire aura felt like a lane I didn’t even know existed but instantly wanted to be in. He was so comfortable in his skin, like he didn’t need to explain or adjust anything for anybody. It wasn’t just that he was cool; he was free. And for the first time, we got glimpses of something outside the bubble we thought was all there was.
We ended up getting close, and he started pulling me into his world piece by piece. There was so much vibrancy, so much life in the spaces he moved through, the spaces he welcomed me into. Then came today—different, because he wasn’t there. My regular crew and I decided to hit up his church for the first time. It was a Black church, and walking through those doors felt like stepping into an entirely different universe. The energy was electric, like the room itself had a heartbeat, and everybody was just moving in sync with it. My friends, they were taking it all in from the edges, pointing out the unfiltered joy, the boldness of it all, like tourists in a new city. But for me, it hit more personal. I felt a tug, like walking in here without him by my side made me some kind of outsider, like I had no right to claim even a tiny corner of what felt so real. And yet, when the choir started, man, it was like the air itself became holy. I could feel it seep into me, crack open the quiet, hidden spaces I didn’t even know I’d walled up.
For a second, it felt overwhelming—as if I was too much and not enough all at once. Like I didn’t deserve to be here, soaking in all this grace. But as the music swirled around us, something shifted. I realized this wasn’t about earning it, and it wasn’t about fitting in. The Spirit that filled that church wasn’t asking for my backstory or credentials. It just moved through me like it knew me exactly as I was. Sitting there, surrounded by this rhythm, this love, I could feel those old, suburban walls we’d built to survive start crumbling. It wasn’t imposter syndrome anymore—it was gratitude. Gratitude for being in the room, for feeling God’s love in a way that didn’t demand explanations or perfection, just openness. And for maybe the first time, I didn’t feel like I had to explain myself or pretend to fit. I just felt seen. Turns out, faith doesn’t ask for much; it just calls out the version of you that was always waiting to surface, to be free.
-Mitchell, Ryder, GG Collective
Epilogue: That’s the thing about spaces that feel unfamiliar—they stretch us, crack us open, and in the breaking, they uncover what’s been buried, what’s been waiting to rise all along. Whether it’s the thunderous joy of a Black church, the stillness of a sacred circle that feels foreign to us, or the honest, messy beauty of standing on holy ground where no reflection of yourself stares back, the truth that echoes is this: We belong. Not because we blend in, not in spite of our differences, but because showing up—just as we are—is enough. The Spirit doesn’t ask for conformity; it doesn’t require us to fit into molds. It asks for surrender. It whispers for us to bring everything—the fractured hope, the half-spoken prayers, the raw, trembling faith—and simply be. What makes the room come alive isn’t our striving for perfection; it’s presence. That’s where holiness resides.
And when we step into those spaces, they don’t demand us to shrink, to smooth out our edges or pack away our doubts. Instead, they ask us to expand, to open wider, to unfurl the pieces of us that we’ve hidden for far too long. Grace doesn’t find us in the shadows—it meets us in the revealing. The Spirit moves like a wild, untamed wind, tugging at the corners of our comfort zones, drawing us into places we didn’t think included us—and there, in that uneasy, miraculous space, we discover it’s exactly where we were meant to be.
And even as we falter, as we step forward uncertainly, each movement closer becomes part of a larger rhythm, a far deeper song. It’s a rhythm that gathers our differences and fits them together into a vibrant, sacred mosaic. This isn’t about blending until we disappear; it’s about rising to see the divine in the contrasts, in the conversations, in the moments that take our breath away. Holiness isn’t tied to a singular form, to a singular way—it’s the promise that we are already enough. It’s the divine declaration that we are seen, that we are held, and that we are, exactly as we are, so infinitely loved.